


Reason's Prisoner #6: Paragon of Animals

by cretkid



Category: West Wing
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:23:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cretkid/pseuds/cretkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action, how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals!" Hamlet:II:2</p>
<p>Last in a series of post episode stories for the last 6 episodes of the second season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reason's Prisoner #6: Paragon of Animals

Paragon of Animals

==============

 

Morning found CJ amidst a pile of Sunday editions and circulars, the spot of sun on the hardwood slowly encroaching towards her. It was a rare treat to sit on her living room floor with the paper, coffee and danish in the middle of the morning. It was a rarer treat to have the time and the inclination to walk to the local Starbuck's to get breakfast.

 

After finally collapsing on her couch Friday night, she had nothing more on her mind than snoozing until the next millennium. She had fallen asleep still in her trenchcoat, arm draped over her eyes to ward off the light from the table lamp. Her cat, a long and sleek smoky gray male that was ill defined by stereotypical feline grace had seen fit to jump on her stomach since there was no room to land beside her on the couch. Who needed an alarm clock with a cat intent on being fed at exactly 5 AM?

 

Saturday had come and gone without incident. All of the preparations had been made for the Memorial Day service at Arlington National Cemetery. Since the White House was not responsible for the service agenda, they only needed someone to 'yea, nea, or ne'er do say' the event schedule, and luckily she wasn't elected. Leo had caught her staring into space one too many times during the day. When she asked for Sunday off, he didn’t object. Much.

 

She had the Washington Post open to Danny's article. The envelope he had given her the other night was sitting on the coffee table. After leaving the West Wing Saturday and attending to all things cat, she took to her favorite corner of the couch with the envelope and her reading glasses. During the first read through she had out the mental red pen, rearranging sentences in her own writing style out of habit. Four paragraphs in and she stopped her editorial. On the second read through she picked through the subtle nuances. There weren't many reporters on their side. She was glad Danny was one of them.

 

Even though she had read the draft several times, she still perused the article in the Post. There was something different about seeing the words on newsprint as opposed to laser paper. She knew Danny wanted an interview with the President; the request had been sitting on her desk when she arrived at work the day before. After he read Danny's article, she was fairly sure the President would grant the interview.

 

She took a sip of what was left of her tepid coffee and started to read the article again.

 

_Model of a Modern Statesman_

_By Danny Concannon_

_  
_

_There's one in every school, in every office. The child that can recite all fifty state capitals in alphabetical order. The sports fan that can name every statistic about the team of the week. The trivia buff that can bedazzle and begrudge and audience with all things minutia. They are members of society. They are a part of culture._

_  
_

_That same person may be the man with a secret to bear. The woman with a cryptic answer. He could be the next man that passes on the street. She could be the woman in the office next door._

_  
_

_When asked about President Chester A. Arthur's failing condition, his administration vehemently denied Bright's disease as the cause for his declining health. He did not seek a second term._

_  
_

_Despite an enlarged heart, President Harding insisted on a harsh campaign schedule. He died three months into his first term._

_  
_

_President Woodrow Wilson stayed in seclusion for the final years of his second term with no explanation. It was later disclosed that he had had a stroke._

_  
_

_An addiction to painkillers and hydrocortisone treatments for President Kennedy were hidden from the public._

_  
_

_Dwight Eisenhower insisted the public know everything there was to know about his health after his first stroke in office in 1955. He convinced Lyndon Johnson to be forthright with the public about his gall bladder condition._

_  
_

_President Bartlet has multiple sclerosis. Is it fatal? Yes. Will it effect his mental capacity? We've been told eventually. Is he medically fit to run this country right now?_

_  
_

_Eisenhower's advisors told him not to seek a second term. His medical history with stroke and intestinal problems aside, his doctor said he was fit to run again. Without the doctor's bill of health, Eisenhower would have never won re-election._

_  
_

_President Bartlet is fit to serve the American people. His doctors tell us so. He tells us so. Doctors from Bethesda Naval Hospital have never declared Josiah Bartlet incapable of handling the duties inherent to the office of President of the United States before or after his admission on national television._

_  
_

_Woodrow Wilson led us through World War I._

_  
_

_Franklin Roosevelt brought us into and out of World War II._

_  
_

_President Bartlet brought the Mexican economy back from the brink of disaster. He brokered the release of the democratically chosen leader of Haiti. He put before Congress one of the most comprehensive family health care programs in recent history. A Hate Crimes bill, the nomination of a Supreme Court Justice._

_  
_

_He is fit to serve._

_  
_

_**The quality of mercy:** The advent of television places a burden on medical privacy issues. The candidate's health was a platform issue during the Kennedy/Johnson debates for the Democratic nomination. Kennedy's campaign maintained that Johnson's 1955 heart attack insinuated he was not medically strong enough to be the President, while denying rumors of Kennedy's Addison's diagnosis._

_  
_

_President Bartlet chose to disclose his illness to the American people…_

 

The cat chose to chase the crumpled danish bag through the newspaper. Accustomed to the cat's antics, CJ rescued the half-full tall latte from its resting spot near her hip and held the paper above the crash zone. However the cat, having lost his toy to the dark realms under the couch, decided to bat at the newsprint instead.

 

CJ folded the newspaper away from her face and stared down the furball sitting contently on top of the pile of circulars. She could recite the article by heart; she really didn't need to be reading it again. "Is this your subtle way of saying you want attention?"

 

The cat dropped and rolled on his back, curling his head from side to side, always keeping eye contact with her.

 

"The adorable thing will not get you brownie points, mister." CJ went back to her paper. "You shredded my down comforter."

 

Refusing to give up, the cat ducked under the paper, planted his forepaws on her stomach, and head-butted her chin.

 

"Okay, so you feel justified in ruining my bed linen?" The cat head-butted her chin again. CJ had to laugh. "I know, I haven’t been the most attentive parent this week, and I'm sorry. But did you have to destroy my grandmother's comforter?"

 

The phone rang and the cat high-tailed it to the other side of the room. Using a boarding house reach to grab the receiver from the end table, she quickly glanced at the LED display on the back of the handset and grinned like the cat with the canary. She'd been expecting this call ever since she left Leo's office the night before.

 

Stretching and yawning for a brief moment, she crossed her legs at the ankle and leaned back against the front of the couch. "Spanky."

 

"How the hell did you know it was me?"

 

"It's called Caller ID, Sam. You may have heard of it." She folded her copy of the Post and left it on her lap.

 

"Yeah, but all it says is 'White House'; besides which I'm not even calling from my office."

 

"No, you're calling from Toby's office." Looking for the cat, she spotted him chasing yet another wad of paper around the living room.

 

"Then, again, how did you know it was me?"

 

Sam's voice had a tinny quality to it; he was either on speakerphone or had moved the receiver away from his mouth. "Because Leo knows I'm not in, Toby knows better, and I talked with Josh last night. That leaves you."

 

"Oh. So why aren't you in?"

 

"You've got me on speaker phone?"

 

"Yeah."

 

CJ had an irresistible urge to annoy the hell out of Toby, whom she knew was listening in the background. Rarely did Toby let anyone stray unescorted into his office. "Why am I on speaker phone?"

 

"Why are you answering questions with more questions?"

 

"Why are you calling from Toby's office? Does he have you chained to the desk?"

 

"Toby said I could only call if I continued to slave over tomorrow's Memorial Day address, and according to his operating definition of 'work', that means my hands have to be on the keyboard at all times. He also says his office offers less distraction."

 

The cat, in his campaign against the evil wad of paper, landed squarely on the circulars and crashed into the side of the couch. CJ leaned over and grabbed him before he caused any more bodily damage. "I beg to differ. Have you found the drawer where he hides all his rubber stickballs? I hear he also has the contents of Al Capone's vault stashed in there."

 

"CJ--" she heard in the background.

 

"Toby! So nice of you to join us from the ether."

 

"Sam, you've talked to CJ, you can rest assured that she's not sick, maimed or otherwise incapacitated. Can we now go back to work?"

 

"Aw, Sam was worried about me," CJ replied, mockingly. She 'oofed' when the cat leapt from her lap, and she made a mental note to regulate his food intake.

 

"You never call in sick, and I didn't see any strangely colored bodily fluids leaking out of any orifices yesterday."

 

"Thank you for painting such a vivid picture for me, Sammy boy. Now, is there a point to this conversation, other than to annoy Toby?"

 

"I heard that," Toby bellowed.

 

"I know. That's the point of using the speakerphone." She imagined that Toby was clutching one of the infernal rubber balls in one hand.

 

"I don’t know about any of you," Toby ranted from afar, "but I would like to finish work so I can watch my baseball game in peace. Can we please move on to the productive part of the People's business?"

 

From the commotion on the phone following Toby's statement, she assumed that wasn't going to happen any time soon. She heard Josh in the background, "Hey, Toby, have you got a bump on the back of your head, too?"

 

If Josh was in, that meant Donna could not be too far behind. "It's called an occipital bun, Josh."

 

"How about you, Sam?" Josh called. "Donna doesn't have one."

 

"Women don't have an occipital bun," Donna explained. "Only men do. It's called sexual dimorphism."

 

CJ laughed at the mental image of Josh sputtering.

 

"Sexual what?"

 

"I swear, Josh, did you ever take a science class? And stop rubbing the back of your head."

 

"Can we please take the biology lesson outside of my office?" Toby proclaimed.

 

"Yeah," CJ added, "and I'm late for my mid-morning nap."

 

"CJ!"

 

"Josh!"

 

"I thought you weren't coming in?"

 

"Does it sound like I'm in? I'm on speakerphone."

 

"You could be in your office."

 

"You could be in YOUR office and not mine," Toby complained. "Donna, out, and take Josh with you. Sam, type. CJ, hang up."

 

"Party pooper," CJ replied.

 

"If you want a pooped party, you could come into work."

 

CJ chose to ignore Toby and direct her attention to something that she knew would drive him batty. "Donna, why is Josh suddenly interested in the difference between boys and girls? He didn’t learn it on the street like every other red blooded American?"

 

"Really, CJ, must you encourage this?" Toby complained loudly.

 

"Josh was putting a book away on that board above his door that he laughingly refers to as a shelf."

 

She didn't need to be in the office to know everyone's expression or body language. Donna sounded closer; she must have stepped farther into the room. Toby had to be near his wit's end and nearly ready to tear someone's head off. Sam would be sitting at Toby's desk with a goofy grin on his face as he watched a free show. Josh, in his own boyishly charming way, was taking his hand away from the back of his head.

 

CJ made a grab for the cat as he passed by her on his hunt for more paper wads and little fuzzy mice. "Let me guess, it fell on his head."

 

"It fell on his head," Donna magpied.

 

"In my defense," Josh hollered a little more loudly than necessary, "it was a heavy book, and I thought I might seriously have a concussion."

 

"And that would be different from your regular state of mind how?" Sam replied.

 

CJ listened as Sam and Josh traded barbs. Donna interjected every few seconds with her own commentary, and from Josh's frequent shouts of 'leave me alone', CJ was sure Donna's rejoinders were not limited to the verbal. She heard Toby making unhappy noises in the background, and she knew the happy banter would soon come to an end.

 

Toby rarely failed to deliver, and she laughed as he roared, "Okay, that's it. Out! Everyone!"

 

"I have to finish this, Toby," Sam implored sarcastically. "You said I couldn't leave this chair until I finished this draft."

 

"Take the chair and the laptop with you. Don’t come back until you have written something resembling the English language." There was a pause and from the general sound of people in motion, she assumed that Sam, Josh and Donna were shuffling out of Toby's office.

 

She heard a click on the phone line and knew instinctively that Toby had picked up the handset and turned off the speakerphone, though his hand must have been over the mouthpiece as he continued to speak. "Sam, did you think I was kidding about the chair and laptop?"

 

"Toby, please tell me you aren't making Sam take the chair with him," CJ exclaimed.

 

"No comment from the peanut gallery," Toby replied, and from the muffled sounds, she knew he had covered the phone again. "And I'm serious about getting this speech done before the first pitch!"

 

The cat was getting restless, so she let him leave her lap. She fished one of several foil balls from under the couch and tossed it in the general direction of the kitchen. The cat scampered after it, scattering parts of the newspaper in his wake.

 

"CJ?"

 

She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear as she cleaned up the newspaper. "Yeah?"

 

"You okay?"

 

"Yeah." She yawned again, and knew from the silence on the other end of the line that Toby heard as well. She added, "Really, I am."

 

"Leo talked with me after you left."

 

"I wasn't at my best when I talked with him last night." CJ leaned against the couch, knowing Toby would think that was an understatement. "If it's any consolation, I got more sleep last night than I had all week."

 

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure Leo will be happy to know that the Press Secretary no longer suffers from sleep deprivation."

 

"Walk into one wall, and they never let you live it down."

 

"Do YOU have a bump on your head?"

 

CJ rubbed absently at her hairline just above her left temple and recalled the circumstances of her discussion with Leo the night before. She had turned a bit too quickly while leaving the Roosevelt Room and smacked her forehead on the doorframe. Leo had caught her clownish yelp of 'ow' while returning from the White House Council's office.

 

"Toby, I would have thought by now you would have noticed that I'm a girl."

 

"I've always noticed you were a girl," he said quietly.

 

She let the statement hang in the air; such was the nature of her relationship with Toby.

 

"So, what have you been up to this fine morning?" Toby asked, breaking the momentary silence. "And please remember that I have been forced to endure three hours of Sam and Josh singing every war movie music score known to man."

 

"I've watched my cat run into every piece of furniture I own. Actually, I am afraid to know what my cat does all day while I'm not home. I may need therapy after this experience."

 

As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, the cat returned from his sojourn into the kitchen and curled up in her lap. She had to laugh at the cat's perceptive senses.

 

"What's so funny?"

 

"His Royal Heinous has decided to make nice with me. And now I'm thinking I'm going to have to figure out what he's trying to hide."

 

"Go take your nap. You're starting to sound paranoid."

 

"Thank you, Mr. Nudnick." There was a knock at her door, and she used the edge of the couch to lever herself to her feet. The cat begrudgingly complied when she shoved him off her lap. "There's someone at the door, Toby. I have to go."

 

"Enjoy your day off, CJ." He hung up.

 

Tossing the phone on the couch, she made her way around the piles of newspapers and store ads towards the door. She couldn't see anyone through the peephole, so she slowly opened the door. There was a small elderly woman standing just outside the door, short enough to avoid the fish eye vision provided by the peephole. The woman was dressed in her Sunday best, and CJ assumed she had recently returned from services.

 

Recognizing her neighbor from across the hall, CJ opened the door wide. "Mrs. Carmichael!"

 

The older woman smiled warmly up at her. CJ wished at times like these that she wasn't quite so tall. Mrs. Carmichael had her head tilted in such a way that made CJ wince in sympathy.

 

"Hello, dear."

 

CJ smiled back. Mrs. Carmichael knew she hated being called by her given name, and had chosen to use the endearment instead. "Won't you please come in?"

 

"Thank you, but no. I'll only be a moment."

 

"What can I do for you?" CJ asked.

 

Mrs. Carmichael was wringing her hands and CJ wondered what could be upsetting her so. "I didn't want to come over here and ask, but my husband insisted, and well… our regular dog walker, that little Pierce boy from upstairs, Matthew? Well, he's taken ill, and poor Buster hasn't been walked in several days. Normally I wouldn't ask this of you, but my husband's hip has been acting up and I wouldn’t be able to take him more than a few houses myself…"

 

CJ rolled her eyes, but was nodding her ascent. Mrs. Carmichael hated to ask favors of anyone. Her husband once told CJ with a mischievous wink it was that independent feminist streak left over from the 1940's when the men went off to war and the women took over at home. She laughed at the image of Mrs. Carmichael as a Rosie the Rivater.

 

"Of course I'll take him for a bit. I could use some fresh air myself."

 

"Oh thank you, dear. Of all the neighbors, you are the only one he likes. I swear, that dog swoons for you whenever he sees you on the television screen, every since that time you took care of him for us when we left for our granddaughter's wedding."

 

"Why don't I come over and get him now. Are you just getting back from Mass?" CJ asked, leaving her door slightly ajar as she followed Mrs. Carmichael across the hall.

 

"We've been back for hours, now. My husband's nephew is taking us to brunch. He's expected to be here any minute now." Mrs. Carmichael opened her apartment door and stepped aside. "Bud, look who is here to take Buster for a bit."

 

CJ walked over to the easy chair across from the television set. "Hello, Mr. Camichael."

 

At the sound of her voice, a tumble of paws and claws on hardwood came bounding into the living room. A dog that had the coloring of a Dalmation, the coat of dingo, and the ears of a Labrador clambered around her, leaning and brushing his body against her legs. "Hello to you, too, Buster," she added, careful not to trip over the exuberant animal.

 

"CJ!" Mr. Carmichael called, getting out of his chair with a bit of effort. His wife gave him a swat on the arm as she passed towards the kitchen, and he sneered at her in return. "It's her name, Bernice! What else am I supposed to call her?" He returned his attention back to CJ. "So, you’re going to take the little monster off our hands for a while, huh? Are you at least getting some cookies out of the deal?"

 

"Hush now, Bud." Mrs. Carmichael returned to the living room with a gallon sized zip-lock bag of chocolate chip cookies in her hand. "Of course she's getting cookies. Make sure you give some of these to that nice man with the funny hair. The one that helped you move in to your apartment. It was so nice of him to help us with that bookshelf while he was here."

 

"I'm sure Josh will appreciate the cookies, Mrs. Carmichael," CJ replied, trying not to laugh.

 

"We appreciate this, CJ," Mr. Carmichael said, placing a hand on her arm. "Matty has strep and Buster hasn't been out of the apartment in days. I'm sure he'll be happy to get away from us for a while."

 

CJ knelt down to pet Buster, though Buster had other ideas and climbed into her arms. "I'm glad to do it. Besides, it will keep my cat on his toes."

 

"What has Moose done this time?"

 

"The question should be, 'what hasn’t he done'?" CJ replied. "Though, I can't blame him. I haven't been home much this week."

 

Mrs. Carmichael passed CJ the dog leash. "Please don't go out of your way to do this for us. We know that you're busy."

 

"Nope, today is my day off, and I would rather spend it with two of my favorite guys. Besides, I think Moose misses him." CJ brushed the dog hair off her pants and stood up. "Okay, Buster, ready to go?"

 

She walked to the door with the dog eagerly following at her heal. "I should be home all afternoon. Just come by when you want him back."

 

"You could keep him, you know," Mr. Carmichael joked as he walked her to the door. His wife swatted him on the arm.

 

Calling over her shoulder as she entered her own apartment, CJ replied, "No thank you, one monster is enough."

 

The cat was waiting just inside the door when she returned. Dropping the leash and bag of cookies on the key stand, she slipped out of her flats and went in search of a pair of sneakers. "Moose, play nice. Buster, stay off the furniture."

 

When she returned from her bedroom, she found that the animals paid her no heed. Buster had claimed her favorite corner of the couch, and Moose was batting at his dangling tail with one of his over-sized paws. Sighing, she sat on the edge of the couch and quickly tied her shoes. She gave Buster the evil eye and pointed off the couch. He obliged with head bowed down.

 

"Sunglasses, keys, leash," CJ ticked off as she walked through the living room. "Baggies for doggie messes. What am I forgetting?" Buster whimpered at her heal. "Dog, right. Tennis ball. I know that’s here somewhere from the last time you stayed with me." She searched one of the cabinets under her kitchen sink to find the toy. "Okay, let's go."

 

Moose was sitting at the door, looking up at her expectantly. CJ paused with her hand on the door. "You want to come, too? I'm going to the park around the corner. You hate crossing the street."

 

If the cat was listening, he didn’t indicate it; he pawed at the door to be let out.

 

"Okay, don't say I didn't warn you." CJ opened the door, dog on leash and cat weaving in between them as she left the building for the street.

 

The neighborhood park was only a short block away from her apartment. It was tree lined, with a set of swings, a slide and a jungle gym near the center and park benches all around. An artificial duck pond complete with fountain had been put in a few years before she had moved to the area, and with threats of West Nile virus in the Northeast she was surprised no one had demanded it be drained. It was a popular spot for pet owners to run their dogs and families to bring their children.

 

Though Moose had been an outdoor/indoor cat when she lived in California, she tried not to let him out too often since the move to D.C. The apartment building didn't have a fenced in yard, and she worked such odd hours that she had been afraid he might be left out for days at a time if he managed to sneak out. Matty Pierce, the eleven year old boy from the second floor and resident animal care-attendant, had discovered that Moose liked to join Buster for walks. So when she was home and heard the familiar clatter of Buster's tags and paws, she let Moose join them. No one else seemed to find it unusual for a cat to be following her and the dog.

 

After a lap or two of the park grounds and more tired than she wanted to admit, CJ parked herself on a bench, let Buster off his leash and tossed the tennis ball so that he would fetch it. The park was nearly empty for a late Sunday morning, though she expected the population to pick up in an hour or so with picnic baskets and early Memorial Day celebrations.

 

Moose was content to lie under the bench and swipe at her feet, or Buster's tail, from time to time. As Buster tired of chasing after the ball, he slowed down in returning it to her feet. However, he still insisted that she throw the ball so he could chase it down.

 

She was leaning forward with her arms braced against her knees when she noticed a shadow fall over her shoulder.

 

"You throw like a girl," a familiar voice said behind her.

 

She looked over her shoulder briefly, then returned her attention to her canine friend. "You are the second person today to acknowledge that I am female."

 

"Generally, that's considered to be a good thing."

 

"And I don't throw like a girl. Would you like me to prove it?"

 

Danny shook his head and backed off a step. "No, thank you. I was at that softball game two years ago and I saw Josh's hand after that play at home plate. You play a mean third base."

 

"Thank you, I think." CJ tossed the ball again, and the dog went traipsing after it. Wiping her hand on her pant leg, she leaned back against the bench and squinted over the top of her sunglasses. "So, what's your story? Are you stalking me? Couldn't find me in my office this morning, so you've decided to hunt me down here?"

 

Danny pointed to the spot next to her on the bench, asking for permission to sit. She slid over and he took a seat. He was dressed casually, as she was, in khakis and a t-shirt rather than his normal attire of a button down oxford and suspenders. "You never take a day off, so everyone wondered if you fell off the turnip truck. I volunteered to be the go-to guy."

 

"You're just trying to play nice so you can get your interview with the President."

 

"Well, there is method to my madness." Danny stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles. His elbows were braced against the back of the bench. "You looked a little frazzled Friday night. And rumor has it that you had a close encounter of the door kind last night."

 

CJ scowled in mock iritation. "Who tattled?"

 

"I ran into Carol this morning when I went in to get some files from my desk. I asked about you and the story sort of slipped out." Danny shrugged his shoulders.

 

"She's getting back at me for last week." The dog returned and dropped the tennis ball in her lap. She tossed it once again. "She doesn't like it when I get into the building before she does. Says she can't regulate my caffeine intake when that happens."

 

"You need your caffeine intake regulated?"

 

"According to Carol, I do. Apparently, she also has a level of approachability index, based on how far my office door is open. I caught her explaining it to Donna once." From the expression on Danny's face, she knew he was familiar with the scheme. "You know about it?"

 

"Who do you think explains it to the newbie reporters?"

 

Buster returned and laid his head in CJ's lap, eyes looking to her for attention. After she scratched his head between his ears, he jumped up on the bench between them. "Never took you for a dog owner," Danny said, moving over to make room for the third party.

 

"I'm not." CJ bent over to grab the tennis ball and tossed it out. Buster immediately leapt for it. "I'm sort of babysitting for a neighbor of mine. That one is mine," she replied, pointing underneath the bench.

 

Leaning over the back of the bench, Danny spied the cat near CJ's ankles and laughed. "You brought a cat to the park?"

 

"The cat followed me, thank you very much. And if he's here with me, that means he's not destroying my bed linen." She checked on the dog; Buster was chewing happily on his tennis ball an arm's length away.

 

"What's the cat's name?"

 

"Moose, though according to Josh his name should be Mutant."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why Moose or why Mutant?"

 

"Either. Both."

 

CJ reached under the bench and grabbed the cat. "C'm'ere, Moose. Let's show Fishboy how you got your nickname." She held one of the cat's front paws in her hand. The foot itself had the general shape of a moose antler than a paw, owing to the fact that instead of the customary 5 toes, each paw had six.

 

"Now I know why you keep Gail in the office," Danny replied, sliding a little farther down the bench. "He is a mutant."

 

"Thank you, Darwin." The cat jumped out of her lap and pounced on the dog. The dog rolled over to shake him off. CJ leaned forward, not the least bit concerned about the welfare of either animal. The wrestling was a regular Buster/Moose activity.

 

The sun felt warm on her back, the light breeze hardly enough to warrant a jacket. There were a few clouds in the sky and if she could trust the Weather Channel, DC was due for some major rain in the next few days. She wanted to enjoy the outdoors for as long as she could.

 

"You didn’t name him, did you?" Danny mimicked her posture. He plucked a long blade of grass from the base of the bench and peeled it into smaller and smaller strips.

 

"My brother's kids renamed him when I had to leave him with them while working the campaign." CJ smiled, remembering how her brother had to dope her cat in order to get him on the plane with little or no commotion when he visited shortly after her move to Washington. "He won't answer to anything else now."

 

"What was his name before?"

 

"You'll laugh."

 

"And this worries you?"

 

CJ brushed her hair behind her ear and hoped the wayward lock would stay there. "Self."

 

"Are you kidding?" Danny sputtered.

 

"No. It was a friend's idea, so that when I started talking to the cat, I could say I was talking to my Self." She ignored the fact one of his eyebrows was about to take orbit at the incredulous admission. "We'd had a few too many drinks that night, and until that moment, I had been calling him 'cat'. So, shut up."

 

"I didn’t say anything," Danny replied, holding his hands up in defense. "What's the dog's story?"

 

"Buster belongs to my elderly neighbors. The regular dog walker is laid up with strep, and Buster adores me."

 

"Buster has good taste."

 

CJ laughed and tried to stifle a yawn. "Seriously, why are you here, disrupting my lovely Sunday morning?"

 

"I was sitting over in that coffee shop," he replied, pointing across the street to store front that CJ knew well, "talking with someone who interned during Johnson's administration, and through the corner of my eye I just happened to spy a rather unusual sight. A certain woman I know was outside, in the daylight, without a gaggle of press following her every step. I just had to investigate."

 

CJ quirked an eyebrow at his explanation. "You need a life."

 

"I have a life."

 

"Stalking me does not constitute a life."

 

"There was no stalking involved. Okay, maybe I did tail you around the park." Then he added sheepishly, "And I did follow you home Friday night to make sure you made it there safely."

 

Though the admission might have irked her, she wasn't angry. Toby had followed her home both Thursday and Saturday nights for much the same reason. She had spotted Toby's car the minute he started to tail her.

 

Danny must have picked up that she wasn't going to yell at him, so he continued with a smirk, "Might I add that stalking you, in a platonic friendly sort of way, would be more than a satisfying day at work."

 

CJ slid to the end of the bench but didn't change her posture. "Now you're just freaking me out."

 

"For the record, I really was over at that coffee shop talking with a former Johnson staffer, at his invitation. And I did see you walk by with the dog." Danny slid closer to her. His voice dropped to a whisper. "After Friday night, I was worried about you. I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay."

 

CJ smiled and closed her eyes. "I'm just tired," she admitted. "It's been a rough couple of weeks." She didn't want to think about how rough the next couple of months were going to be.

 

"I was in California when the President went on TV," Danny said softly, "getting ready for an interview with Nancy Reagan. She postponed our meeting at the last minute. I was sitting in her assistant's office, watching the Dateline interview with the President and the First Lady, then the press conference after. He wasn't going to run again, was he?"

 

She didn't say anything, just dropped her head. Buster abandoned his ball and put his head in her lap again. She absently scratched behind his ears.

 

Danny continued. "I saw you prepping him just before he reached the podium. I could tell from your expression that you thought he wasn't going to run again. He was supposed to take a medical question first, wasn't he? You had someone planted in the front row. That's what you were telling him on the way to the podium. I saw him stare off to the side for a moment, and then he took the re-election question instead."

 

"Perceptive guy."

 

"I try to be. After the press conference ended, Mrs. Reagan's assistant led me into her office. And the whole course of the interview changed when I walked into the room and Mrs. Reagan asked, 'What do you think?' A scheduled 30 minute interview turned into 2 and half hours. She talked to me about President Reagan's Alzheimer's and going public with it. I called my editor, asked if I could change the direction of my feature articles."

 

"I noticed that you didn’t give me your Father's Day article," CJ said, leaning back against the bench.

 

"That one depends on whether or not I get my interview," Danny replied with a smile.

 

"I'm sure something can be arranged." She closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. The park was starting to fill with picnickers and noise and she knew she would have to get Buster back on his leash before an eager beaver child ran past. But she was reluctant to leave the peace and tranquility.

 

"CJ, move or say something, so I know you haven't fallen asleep."

 

When she opened her eyes, there were more people in the park. A lot more people. Danny must have gotten the leash on Buster, as the dog was tugging and pulling away from the bench in an effort to chase down a frisbee flying nearby. It was a little disorienting.

 

Danny was facing her with a bemused grin. "Yup, you fell asleep." He stood and proffered a hand to her.

 

"I did not." She gave him the slobbery tennis ball instead of her hand. She checked her watch and realized that she had probably been dozing for a good twenty minutes. She looked up at Danny, who was staring at the tennis ball as if it was infected with some foreign disease. "Well, the least I can do is offer you is a place to clean up a bit and some lunch since you did watch the dog for me. I probably have something that doesn't look like a 10th grade biology experiment."

 

"That sounds so appetizing."

 

"Do you want lunch or not?"

 

"And give up an offer for free food and a possible trip to the ER for stomach pumping? No way."

 

She gave him one of her baggies to put the tennis ball in as he deftly wiped his hand on the side of his trousers. Danny had the leash securely wrapped around his wrist. Since Buster wasn't pulling away from him, CJ decided to leave him be, and started to head for home. "Moose, shake a leg. Let's go."

 

 

 

 

When Mrs. Carmichael knocked on CJ's door later that afternoon, she wasn't expecting anyone else to answer the door, let alone someone she had never seen in CJ's apartment. Slightly suspicious, she introduced herself as CJ's next door neighbor. The red headed gentlemen dried his hands on a dish towel that had been draped over his shoulder and explained that he was a friend from work and that he was just cleaning up from lunch. He spoke quietly, and Mrs. Carmichael wondered why until he led her into the living room.

 

CJ was asleep on the couch, lying on her side. Behind her head was the cat. Buster had spooned himself in front of her. When Mrs. Carmichael entered the living room, Buster looked up briefly, then went back to his nap beside CJ.

 

Placing a finger to her lips, Mrs. Carmichael slipped out of the living room and towards the door. After asking the young man to relay a message about returning the dog at CJ's leisure, she slipped back to her own apartment and hoped that CJ got a well deserved rest.

 

END


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